Grow Accustomed to the Dark
by montycrowley
Summary: The End, or the closest thing to it. 9/11.


**Standard Disclaimer Applies.  
****  
Author's Notes:** Dedicated to the dead. Title taken from Emily Dickinson's poem; a part of it is shown below.

. . .

_**Grow Accustomed to the Dark**_

_by_

_**idle a while**_

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_We grow accustomed to the Dark–  
When light is put away–  
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp  
To witness her Goodbye–_

_. . ._

_  
Either the Darkness alters–  
Or something in the sight  
Adjusts itself to Midnight–  
And Life steps almost straight._ -- **Emily Dickinson, **_**We grow accustomed to the Dark**_

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It was the end of yet another pointless World Conference and strangely enough, Alfred had been impatient to adjourn the meeting. Usually he would be the one to chatter on and on about _ideals _and _world peace _and _democracy _that one of the other nations had to cut him off. This time, however, an inexplicable uneasiness had been nibbling at his side, a relentless pestilence that had him shifting in his seat, eyes darting to and fro, fingers strumming a blind tune. The small hairs of his nape had prickled in alarm; he couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was watching him, preying him.

He hastily gathers his notes (scribbly doodles he constructed while the other nations had their turn to talk), hops out of his chair, and flings his bomber jacket over his shoulders, intent on heading directly to the comfort of his home.

He doesn't make it past three steps before a gasp rips from his throat and he staggers to the floor, sprawls face-down.

England happens to catch the _'50' _insignia of the jacket fall and he calls out, "Alfred?"

He teeters on the cliff's tenuous line. Why was he on the floor? Why was he on the floor? Why was he – was that _blood?_ Why was he bleeding? How? What? Somewhere in the back of his head, he hazily notes that his glasses had cracked from the impact.

"America?"

His eyes widen and suddenly he coughs violently, body quaking, fresh red drops speckling the glossy floor, his chest heaving because he needs to _breathe, breathe, breathe_, but he can't, his lungs were two shriveled windbags, burning, why did his lips feel so dry and chipped?

He calls out a name – he doesn't know whose – and all that comes out is a hoarse whisper, a windy plea.

And then – that's when he could _hear _and _see _and he _knew. _

Emotions seize him so swiftly he chokes; there is too much, a mind-numbing bloom of violet, charcoal, arsenic, too fast to classify, to put into color-coded boxes, to understand. He can't think anymore. He can't believe what he's hearing, what he's seeing, it's too terrifying to be reality, no, it can't happen, no, not to him–

_It did, it is, it has. _Words pitter-patter across, skirts the frayed edges of his consciousness, a vicious _Yes. This is real. This is now. This is you._ It sings,

_World Trade Towers are burning down, burning down, burning down, World Trade Towers are burning down, my fair lady Liberty. _

–the horrifying shrieks of the metal birds as they crash, straight and true, magnetized, drawn to the building's side. The planes were pricking his sides and the people were screaming, screaming, screaming behind his eyes, clawing at the fleshy plate, scraping him into pink mud. He shoves his head in his hands and cringes into a ball, withers from the blood-rushing, bone-snapping screams as they hammer torturously against his ears, and his skin peels back in horror.

Blood – he doesn't know where it's coming from – seeps against his face, his cheek is sticky wet and though it is warm, it feels marble cold.

He can do nothing but listen to the words drumming an iron scar, the jittery commands, so far away yet so clear to him.

"_Single file, down the stairs – one at a time, one at a time! We're going to make it out alive." _

Fearful voices wearing calm masks.

"_I understand, sir. We're trying to get all the apparatuses there. I am trying to let them know where you are. Stay on the line."_

Confusion curling, stretching its scaly wings, sucking.

"_Wha – Where – What floor are you on? What the hell happened?" _

Dusty mouthfuls of sweet nothings.

"_Okay, try to calm down so you can conserve your oxygen, okay? Try to…stay calm…try to…you are not dying, alright, ma'am? You are not dying."_

Hysteria, the crippling curse, it crushes.

"_We're young men. We're not ready to die. No, no – don't tell me to fucking 'calm down'! You're not the one in a burning building!" _

Halted, stunted lungs, hammering hearts.

"_I'm on the eighty-third floor! I'm on the eighty-third floor! Is it – is it – are they going to get somebody up here? We're on the floor and we can't breathe, and it's very, very, very hot…oh, please hurry…" _

Trembling breaths, desperately fighting hard to be strong.

"_Honey, is that you? …Yes, I'm still in the tower…no, no, don't cry – I'm – I'll be home, don't worry…don't worry…I love you so much…" _

Rambling reassurances, spoken to a dead receiver, the already lost.

"_Keep on breathing, just keep talking, you're gonna be fine, don't worry…oh my god…" _

Hushed, frightened resignations.

"…_I'm gonna die, aren't I?" _

He watches his tragedy unfold like the easy pages of a book and he clings to the floor like a lifeline; he must ride the storm.

The majestic towers groan, _It is done. I am gone._

A demon breathes blackness over the city, belches dirty smoke from the roof. The blue sky of freedom slashes into red, white, and gray tattered strips.

"_OH, GOD! O-!"_

The tower suddenly crumbles, slides into the earth, shooting arid dust and smoke into the sky in a cruel volcanic eruption.

He rocks on his feet, tries to steady himself because he is rolling down, rolling down, down and down again. The world tips and falters because his world has tipped and faltered.

_America of the free. America of liberty. America of the brave. _

Something inside him breaks. He begins to cry the hero's cry.

"America! America!"

Not the rallying cry typically spoken with his name, but the shocked, desperate, pitying tones of England, France, China, Italy, Russia, Germany, Japan; the World crowds around him, the World watches hurt America, heavy America. Blessed America.

"Bloody hell – somebody help me pick him up!"

"_Mon ami_, what is wrong?"

"Use this to stop the bleeding, aru."

"Wh – what's happening to America, Germany?"

Background noise, all of it white noise, like softly crunching eggshells. He was numb against their consolations and questions, his body had turned into a little white hell and all he sees are his people buried deep in dust and teeth, the little human drops, falling, tiny suicides, crimson anguish clouding, the hatred already rearing its ugly head.

He lay on the unfeeling floor, his gums bleeding, his body battered, as stony lines shoot through his paralytic mind.

_America of the smoke. America of the fire. America of ashes._

He must grow accustomed to the dark and wait for another day to crawl out of the pit, to stand once again.


End file.
